“Do you really believe I might be?” I gave him an uncertain smile. My heart warmed to think that Taylor Morgan cared, but I couldn’t help feeling a little disconcerted by the knowledge that he feared for my future.
“I don’t know what tomorrow holds,” Taylor said, rubbing a hand over his face, “and neither did the professor. But he had a great instinct for knowing how people would react in a time of trial, and you must admit that Cahira’s heirs rose triumphandy to face their unique challenges.” A faint line deepened between his brows as he sorted through his thoughts. “The professor would never claim to be a fortuneteller, but he often said that each age holds its own trials—each decade, for that matter, suffers from its own troubles. The Vietnam War dominated thinking in the seventies; terrorism influenced the eighties; natural disasters made news in the nineties. The coming decade will hold its own tragedies, and how do we know that you will not find yourself involved in something of vital importance? Professor Howard wanted to be sure you’d be prepared for whatever might come your way as an heir of Cahira O’Connor.”
I lowered my gaze, then tucked my legs under me, making myself comfortable in the wing chair. While Taylor sipped his tea, I opened the journal’s cover and turned a few pages.
The first entry was dated December 24, 1860. A slanting feminine hand had written,
This book is such a lovely gift! Roger Haynes never ceases to surprise me! Tonight I dined with Mr. Haynes and his mother at their fine houses in Beacon Hill, and my homesick heart was greatly cheered by their merrymaking and many kindnesses to me. I could almost stop missing Papa, Wesley, and Charleston, but every time the wind blows I find myself listening for the pounding of waves on the bulkheads, the chattering of palmetto leaver, and Wesley’s boisterous laughter. How strange it is to celebrate Christmas so far from home!
Engrossed in spite of myself, I read on.
Boston
They talk about a woman’s sphere,
As though it had a limit.
There’s not a place in earth or heaven,
There’s not a task to mankind given…
Without a woman in it.
KATE FIELD, 1838-1896, AMERICAN WRITER
One
We’re so glad you could take time out from your studies to be with us, Miss O’Connor.”
Flanna shifted her eyes from the sparkling crystal and gleaming silver in order to meet her hostess’s gaze. “I am deeply honored by your invitation,” she answered, inclining her head toward the venerable older woman who stood at the head of the table. “Indeed, I was afraid I would spend Christmas alone in the boardinghouse with my maid.”
“Your maid.” The thin line of Mrs. Haynes’s mouth clamped tight for a moment, then her stringy throat bobbed as she swallowed. “You’re referring to the colored girl who accompanied you this evening?”
“Relax, Mama. Charity is a free Negro,” Roger answered smoothly, pulling Flanna’s chair out from beneath the mahogany table. “Flanna does not own slaves.” With a flourish, he extended his arm. “My lady, your chair awaits.”
Flanna managed a tight smile and maneuvered her voluminous skirts into the narrow space between the chair and the table, then sat down. The butler seated Mrs. Haynes, and the older woman’s blue eyes narrowed slightly as she watched Roger take the empty seat between her and Flanna.
“I assumed,” Mrs. Haynes said, her hand idly playing with the spangled jewels at her neck, “that everyone in South Carolina held slaves. After all, the gentlemen from South Carolina in Congress are most vociferous in their support of slavery.”
“Mother, I assure you there is no reason for this concern.” Roger frowned. “Flanna is from Charleston, and her father is a physician. Charleston is a metropolitan port; there is no room for plantations like those populated by your Uncle Tom and Eliza.”
The woman’s thin mouth softened slightly. “I suppose one should not prejudge another on account of where one was born. Miss O’Connor, I’m very glad to know your people aren’t slavers. I believe in speaking up for the downtrodden, whether they be women or people of color.”
“That’s very gracious of you, ma’am.” Flanna smiled and folded her hands in her lap. Roger had warned her that his mother had become an ardent abolitionist ever since reading Uncle Tom’s Cabin.
“Do you read much?” The lady lifted an elegant brow.
“Quite a bit, actually,” Flanna answered. “Mostly medical texts. I’m in my last term at the medical college.”
“You ought to read The Equality of the Sexes and the Condition of Women, by Sarah Grimké” Mrs. Haynes unfolded her napkin with an emphatic snap. “I suppose you’ve heard of Sarah’s sister, Angelina? She was born in Charleston, too, but is persona non grata there now, from all reports. Of course, I’m not surprised she would no longer be received in the South. Her book urged Southern women to speak out against slavery. A remarkably brave lady, Angelina Grimké.”
Flanna drew in a deep breath and released it slowly. Of course she’d heard of the Grimké sisters—all of Charleston thought them remarkably boorish women. They had moved to the North and begun to publish literature that bemoaned the state of women in general and slaves in particular. Gentlefolk in Charleston ignored them, but many Northern women had elevated the sisters to an almost saintly status.
After nearly two years in Boston, she’d grown tired of caustic remarks about slavery. Common sense and good manners dictated that she let the subject pass, but she couldn’t resist explaining the true situation to this sheltered Boston lady. After all, Roger had assured her that his mother was quite broad-minded.
“The truth, Mrs. Haynes,” Flanna said with a tolerant smile, “is that less than one-quarter of Southern people hold any slaves at all. My father is a physician and has no need of field hands. Charity is my maid, of course, and Papa has a valet, but we hired them from among Charleston’s free brown population.”
“You see?” Roger crossed his arms and beamed at his mother. “Your sensibilities are safe. Now call Howard to bring in the soup. I’m famished.”
“One moment, please, Roger.” Flanna put out her hand so that it barely brushed the sleeve of his coat, the only touch she might risk toward a man who had not yet crossed the line from suitor to betrothed. “Your mother is an intelligent lady; I am certain she would appreciate hearing the complete and honest truth.”
Roger shot her a warning glance, but Flanna decided to ignore it. “My older brother,” she said, again smiling at her hostess, “is a rice planter just outside Charleston. I believe Wesley owns over a hundred slaves, and the last time I visited him I found them quite happy under his protection. Regardless of what you may have heard about life on a plantation, I can assure you that my brother does not beat his slaves, nor does he allow those who are married to be separated.”
Mrs. Haynes’s face twisted into a horrified expression of disapproval. “So your people do own slaves!”
“Mama, remember your delicate constitution,” Roger cautioned. “Are your smelling salts at hand?”
“Yes. My brother owns slaves, as do most gentlemen in the country,” Flanna went on, lightly tapping her fingertips together. “In my brothers view, slavery is wholly without justification or defense. He will admit that it is theoretically and morally wrong. But my brother and my statesmen did not choose slavery. It was consigned to their supervision by a premeditated policy drafted by our forefathers.”
A door swung open. Flanna looked up, hungry and ready for dinner, but Howard, the Irish butler, took one look at his mistress’s face and froze with a steaming tureen in his hands.
Mrs. Haynes seemed not to notice that the first course had arrived. “Your brother,” she leaned forward and paused for emphasis, “has surely bought slaves on occasion.”
“Why, yes, he has.”
“Then how can you say he does not support slavery?”
Flanna lifted her chin until the full weight of her netted hair rested upon the back of her neck. Regarding her ho
stess with a level gaze, she said, “If Wesley had not bought them, what would have become of them? You cannot believe they would be better off with a slave trader in a less civilized area! We are not ignorant of the brutal barbarians who abuse colored people, but on the other hand, neither am I ignorant of certain people who brutally abuse their children. Should we forbid families to rear children because some of them will be whipped or unloved? How can you then forbid slavery on the grounds that a few masters are cruel?”
“Because slavery itself is cruel! Because the black man wants to be free!”
Flanna’s eyes caught and held Mrs. Haynes’s gaze. “With all due respect, ma’am, I don’t believe you can know what colored people want. You cannot understand that race until you have lived with them.”
Mrs. Haynes’s silver brows knitted in a frown as her bosom rose in indignation. “I understand them very well! I read Mrs. Stowe’s book, and I regularly correspond with some Quaker folk who risk their lives and fortunes sending innocent runaways over the border into freedom.”
Flanna shook her head slightly, then smiled at her empty soup bowl. Something in her wanted to rise up and shout out against the unassailable prejudices of these Northerners, but she was a lady and a guest in this house. Years of training in the graceful arts of gentility could not be discarded in one evening. Let the Yankee abolitionists and suffragists dispel their boredom by raging against things they did not understand. Flanna would hold her tongue, for she’d be leaving this Yankee city soon enough.
But something in her couldn’t resist raising one final point.
“Mrs. Haynes.” She paused to temper her voice and her rising exasperation. “Have you ever reflected upon the consequences of committing two or three million people, born and bred in the dependent state of slavery, to all the responsibilities, cares, and labors of freedom? My brother’s slaves cannot read or write; they are accustomed to having all their needs met. Many, I fear, would find a life of freedom far more terrifying and taxing than the life they enjoy on his plantation.”
“A pampered valet is no less enslaved than a brutalized field hand.” A faint glint of humor sparkled in the lady’s eyes. “Would you prefer a life of pampered slavery to the life you now lead, Miss O’Connor?”
Flanna felt the corner of her mouth twist in a half-smile. On several occasions growing up she had felt a bit like a pampered captive. Aunt Marsali, who had helped supervise Flanna’s transformation from a spindly tomboy into a young woman, had continually chided her with admonitions about what proper young ladies simply could not do.
She tilted her head in acknowledgment of a point well made. “I believe it was Thomas Jefferson who wrote that slavery was like a wolf we held by the ears.” She smiled and folded her hands in a tranquil pose. “We can neither hold him, nor safely let him go.”
“Well, let us hope the wolf will not huff and puff and blow our house down.”
Roger took the brief lull in conversation as an opportunity to wave the butler into the room. “Look, ladies, the soup is ready! Come, Howard, before it grows cold. Serve Mother first. She likes her chowder hot.”
Flanna caught the chiding look Mrs. Haynes shot her son, and repressed a smile as she studied the elegant dining table. Wealthy, civic-minded Mrs. Haynes was probably wondering what sort of Southern infidel her son had brought home, and for a moment Flanna wished she were out in the kitchen with Charity and the other servants. The opening salvos of a battle had been fired, however gently, and only the Lord knew how far Mrs. Haynes might carry the conversation.
Flanna removed her napkin from the table and spread it in her lap, dreading the advent of what might become a heated discussion. She had enjoyed many rousing debates with her father and brother, often taking positions she did not personally support just to see how well she could argue against their masculine mind-sets. But family arguments were one thing; dinner conversation with a matriarch of Boston society was altogether different. She would not allow herself to be drawn into an argument about slavery. She had no personal involvement and little interest in the subject, but everyone from her landlady to her classmates felt it necessary to chastise Flanna for the perceived faults and injustices of the entire South.
“Mother, Flanna is at the top of her class, did I mention that?” Roger leaned across the table to squeeze his mother’s hand, nearly upsetting the butler’s ladle as he attempted to fill Roger’s bowl. “She is a very bright young woman.”
“An outspoken young woman, at any rate.” Mrs. Haynes pressed her lips together as the butler served Flanna. “Apparently you hold unconventional views in several areas. I applaud you for attempting the study of medicine.”
Flanna smiled to cover her annoyance at the woman’s use of the word attempting “Yes ma’am. I’ve always wanted to follow in my father’s footsteps, and months ago I realized that a female partner could be of great use to him. Many ladies are too modest to call for a male doctor when they are ill, and a midwife cannot handle every medical difficulty.”
Mrs. Haynes’s mercurial dark eyes sharpened. “I must say, I’ve always thought the idea of women doctors to be a most appropriate notion. I shudder every time I have to visit a male physician, and my husband, the General—God rest his soul—was most adamant upon being present whenever a physician had to attend me. A male doctor’s attention detracts from female delicacy.” She smiled at Flanna with a faint light of approval in her eyes. “I congratulate you, my dear, for choosing a worthy profession. And I hope you find a really good doctor to oversee your efforts in case you encounter some serious situation.”
Beneath the table, Flanna flexed her fingers until the urge to throttle the older woman had passed. “I thank you for your approval,” she said, noting Roger’s chagrined expression from the corner of her eye, “but even though I will assist my father, I do not think I will require his help should a serious case arise. My education at the medical college has been quite complete. When I graduate, I expect that I would be able to attend you without resorting to any other professional. Technically, I should even be able to treat”—her eyes lifted and caught the butler’s startled gaze—“Howard.”
“My goodness!” The dowager’s hand flew to her jeweled neck, and after an instant she let out a throaty laugh. “As if I would allow a slaveholder near one of my sturdy Irish servants!”
“Madam, I do not believe my presence is required here,” the butler stammered, a dark flush mantling his cheeks.
“She was only making a point, Howard,” Roger said, waving the butler away. He placed one elbow on the table and gave his mother a conspiratorial smile. “Now, Mother, Flanna has already told you that she owns no slaves and that she finds the practice abhorrent. And you must admit that she is determined enough to join your corps of suffragists.”
Mrs. Haynes’s penetrating eyes swung back to Flanna. “How do you feel, my dear, about women and the right to vote?”
Flanna hesitated, wavering between honesty and discretion. She would love to tell this woman exactly what she thought, but she had already said too much. “I believe,” she said, keenly aware of the older woman’s scrutiny, “that women know much more about politics than men give them credit for knowing.”
She smiled, congratulating herself on her tact, but Mrs. Haynes pressed on. “But what do you think about women and the vote? We are citizens of this country, so shouldn’t we be able to cast our vote as freely as American men?”
Flanna glanced at Roger, hoping for his assistance, but his eyes were fastened to the tablecloth, his cheeks flushed. The coward.
“Mrs. Haynes.” Flanna forced a demure smile to her lips. “Most women I know are happy to be under the authority of their husbands and fathers. They do influence the vote, they do play a role in politics, but they influence matters through the hearts of their men.
Mrs. Haynes sank back in her chair, her face frozen in an expression of incredulity.
“Ladies.” A grin overtook Roger’s handsome features as he straightened a
nd looked at Flanna. “My two favorite women in all the world, you are both strong in mind and opinion. But in the spirit of Christmastide, can’t we put aside our differences and lift our thoughts to peace on earth?”
Mrs. Haynes reached for the crystal goblet at her plate. “We already have, son. Only the spirit of the season could enable me to sit at a table with one whose family owns slaves.”
“Blessings on you, Mother, for your generosity,” Roger answered in a wry voice. He gave Flanna a warm smile, then extended his hands, one to her, one to his mother. “Give me your hands, ladies, and let me ask God to bless this meal. And I will pray that our conversation may be more amiable for the rest of the evening.”
“I’m afraid you may have cast a sour spell on your mother’s holiday, Roger,” Flanna said, slowly making her way over the snow-dusted walkway outside the Haynes house. “Your mother heartily dislikes me.”
“No, she doesn’t!” Roger protested, laughing. The sound of his laughter echoed over the quiet street as he extended his hand and helped Flanna to the carriage block. Behind him, the four-story brick house loomed like an ancient and forbidding presence, the lamp-lit windows shining like Mrs. Haynes’s disapproving eyes. “She thinks you are quite…original.”
Flanna paused for a moment to make certain Charity had been safely seated on the dickey at the rear of the carriage, then squeezed Roger’s hand as she stepped from the block into the creaking phaeton. The four-wheeled conveyance, with its folding top extended to shelter them from the winter wind, reminded her of her father’s buggy, and for an instant homesickness smote her with the force of a physical blow. She steeled her heart and reminded herself that she’d surely spend next Christmas at home, then slid to the end of the upholstered bench as Roger climbed in beside her.
“Excuse me, my dear.”
Flanna lifted her arms, allowing Roger to arrange a carriage blanket over her skirts, then sighed in simple relief when he lifted the reins and clucked softly to the horse. She was so thankful that this night was just about over.
The Velvet Shadow Page 2
